


Lion of the Court

by FlowerCrownOfPoppy



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, bi cullen is important to me ok, lovesick cullen is also important
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-03 22:32:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2890397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlowerCrownOfPoppy/pseuds/FlowerCrownOfPoppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen is afraid of what he's willing to do for the inquisitor and what he stands to lose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Skyhold’s throne room is usually brimming with constant chatter, refugees and merchants alike meeting together to discuss every possible topic under the sun. It is a place of shelter and progress, constantly shifting and building into something greater.

But now it is still. The warm atmosphere has turned cold, the silence oppressive in its deadly calm.

Cullen stands poised on the steps, shoulders straight but hand a hairsbreadth away from his sword. Withdrawal had broken him and left his fortifications little more than crumbling stone. Yet faith had rebuilt it, rebuilt  _him_  for a higher purpose he now knows better than any Chantry prayer. 

The reason for this sits on a menacing throne. He is the source of hope for nations, legend spun in the cheapest Fereldan taverns to the grandest Orlesian courts. His armor is made of silverite but his eyes are harder than any stone. It speaks of wealth was not taken, but earned.

Judge. Mage. Inquisitor.

The prisoner standing before him is cuffed, two agents positioned on either side of him with blank expressions. 

"Marcelle Duchemp of Cumberland," Josephine began, gaze focused on her notes "You have been accused of conspiring with Venatori agents and providing them information about Inquisition strongholds. One such location, Griffon Wing Keep, nearly fell to Venatori onslaught. They knew exactly where to strike in our defenses. As a result, 3 of our soldiers died. Another 10 were injured. What do you say to these claims?"

"You accuse me of informing the Venatori about a keep they previously occupied? We stole it from them and then they attempted to steal it back. I had no hand in it." Marcelle’s lips were pulled back in a snarl, his hate left bare for everyone in the throne room to see. Cullen knew his kind well, deserters that switched hands the second favors tipped.

Josephine cleared her throat and went on. “While that is true, Leliana’s agents did manage to procure a note from a Venatori camp in the Approach. It was signed with your name and contained details about every fortification Commander Cullen had ordered for the ramparts.”

"Right, let’s get this over with," the inquisitor said, finally removing his palm from his cheek, "If I wasted time judging every oily rat that betrayed the inquisition I’d never leave this throne." His voice was a dry drawl and his eyes were at half mast with boredom.

"You have no right to judge anyone," Marcelle spat, "You sit on your throne like some pampered king, thinking you are above the men you push around."

"Oh, that hurts," the inquisitor mocked, wiping away an invisible tear, "Really. Throw him in the dungeons for —"

There is a clink, a clatter, and then Marcelle is gone. The chains binding his hands lay in a small pile where he once stood. An alarmed shout from one of the agents sets everyone else off like a crack of lightning. Cullen has already pulled out his sword before the cuffs even land on the ground, lunging in front of the throne.

Marcelle is fast but Cullen is faster. He pictures daggers sliding into Trevelyan’s sternum, the life draining from his eyes, and his fury burns away into a pinpoint of light.

His gauntlets deflect the slashing motion of Marcelle’s daggers as he breaks out of stealth, knocking the assassin backward long enough to jab his sword forward. It pierces the leather jerkin and Cullen feels the impact of his sword sliding through flesh and bone. Blood spurts freely as he yanks the blade back, Marcelle’s corpse dropping like a weighted stone. 

Josephine has turned away from the grisly remains, whimpering despite herself. The inquisitor simply sits still, swallowing when Cullen turns around. There are flecks of blood in his feathered mantle. 

Gore in the lion’s mane. Trevelyan would’ve snorted at the thought if there weren’t a hundred others crowding his head.

"Inquisitor, are you alright?" Cullen asked, eyebrows arching in concern. All the predatory grace seems to leave him then, the intensity of his rage tempered as he returns to himself. His shin twitches with the urge to draw nearer and pull Trevelyan into his arms. He forces himself to stand at a respectful distance, expectant but composed. 

Trevelyan feels something in the pit of his stomach lurch as he clears his throat. “Well,  _I’m_ fine. Our prisoner not as much I suspect.”

Marcelle’s eyes have already glazed over, their light extinguished. Cullen feels his face burn though he does not blush. “I … my apologies, inquisitor,” he said, bowing his head, “My intent wasn't to kill the prisoner, but he —”

"At ease, Commander. You did what you had to do."

Cullen raises his head only then, giving one curt nod. He pulls out a rag from his belt-pouch and wipes the gore off, staring at his reflection in the steel. Not a single thought had crossed his mind when he’d leapt to Trevelyan’s defense. The urge to serve, to  _protect_  had become as automatic as breathing, more consuming than the aching hunger of lyrium withdrawal.

Leliana has arrived without a sound, arms crossed over her chest. She doesn’t bat an eye at the corpse or the blood smeared on the floor. “I heard the commotion all the way from the loft,” she said, “Well done, Commander, though this shouldn’t of happened in the first place. Has anyone checked Marcelle’s restraints?”

Something glinted on the ground a few blessed feet away from the body. Josephine went over to it and bent down as much as her dress would allow. “There was a hairpin hidden in his sleeve,” she said, picking up the offending accessory, “He knew we’d be using cuffs instead of rope for his restraints. Which means … “

"He intended to be caught," Leliana cut in, lips pursed together gravely. "He had help."

Cullen tries to ignore the cold dread settling in his stomach when Trevelyan finally rises from the throne. The inquisitor is mindful of the blood when he kneels, rifling through the dead assassin’s pockets and cursing under his breath. No letters, not a single note. When he stands again there are already hushed whispers spreading among witnesses, their fevered pitch echoing through the hall.

"Enough," Trevelyan orders. All at once the noise stops. Eyes widen and backs straighten. A long, long time ago, this sort of power would have unnerved him. "Leliana, how many agents can you spare?"

"I have already informed a few of what has transpired. They will bring in every person involved with transporting Marcelle and interrogate them."

"Good." It’s all he can say on the matter; death has nearly claimed him more times than he can care to count. But that was out there, beyond the walls of his fortress. In here he’d wanted to feel untouchable, safe from the chaos of the world outside. It was a foolish idea and he’d nearly paid for it with his life. Again.

Cullen seems to sense his distress as he takes matters into his own hands. “Increase his personal guard. For now, no one enters Skyhold without invitation.”

The inquisitor’s eyes meet his. Cullen’s are burning in the center. 

"This will not happen again, my worship. I promise you."

The inquisitor gives a tight nod to mask the subtle shudder of his spine. My worship.  _Mine_.  _You are my faith and I am your disciple._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I knocked this out in one day, go me.

By the time night falls the gates of Skyhold are closed. The tension had been electric in the air, an acrid taste that Cullen couldn’t dispel from the back of his throat no matter how hard he tried. But now the cold settles in and the taste abates. Soldiers stumble drunkenly out of the tavern; Chantry sisters gossip behind their steepled fingers; hunters feed their mabari companions and gaze longingly at the stars.

Soldiers drink, sisters talk, mabari feast, and Cullen hunches over his desk, glaring at it as if it holds all the world’s secrets. The night feels  _normal_  but he knows that it’s all wrong. Not even this routine could shake him of his thoughts, the niggling voice in his head whispering  _there’s something you’ve missed, always something._  

So he checks again and again, reconfirming guardposts, doubling their numbers. Leliana tells him her eyes are in every shadowy corner of Skyhold and it reassures him less than he’d like. He trusts her, underhanded methods and all, but —

"Cullen?" 

Cullen nearly knocks over his ink pot, catching it just in time. A curse dies on his tongue when he sees Trevelyan leaning against the doorway, brow arched curiously.

"Was I interrupting something?"

"I … no. I was just doublechecking guard rotations. A precautionary measure, nothing more." He tries to ignore the way his heartbeat quickens when Trevelyan beckons him with a finger. Maker help him but he'd _missed_ him, somehow, the few hours that passed torturous in their length. They were still chasing leads, still stumbling in the dark.

"Might I have a word with you, Commander?" the inquisitor asked, his smirk brief but unmistakable, "In light of what happened I wish to continue our conversation in the privacy of my own quarters."

"Yes, your worship." Cullen might not be a master of the game but he knows how to hide his intentions well enough. He keeps his gait unhurried and confident, the stride of a seasoned soldier. Professional.

There’s barely a pause after they pass through the door to the inquisitor’s personal quarters; as soon as it swings shut behind them Cullen crowds him against the wall, fists placed on either side of his head.

Trevelyan would’ve felt a pang of arousal if the display had been more predatory than desperate. He can see the cracks in Cullen’s walls, the doubt and the fear threatening to crumble his expression. Needle-sharp guilt pierces the emotional barriers Trevelyan had carefully cultivated over the years, robs him of any lighthearted quip or seductive one-liner. 

"Earlier back there, I …" Cullen’s staring at his shoes, can’t look him in the eye for all the money in the world. "I don’t know what came over me. The thought of losing you, of letting that  _bastard_  touch you, I couldn’t —” The words are thick in his mouth, choking around emotions he can’t even begin to verbalize.

Trevelyan’s fingers on this throat helps him breathe again, eases the tension in his hands so they lie flat against the stone. He feels the faint vibration of magic, a familiar hum in the back of his mind. The sensation used to worsen his withdrawal and drive him up the wall in desperation for relief but now all he feels is fear draining out of him. His bones sing with a new energy, a new light.

Trevelyan never takes his eyes off of him. His lips, though parted, say nothing. They stay like that for a moment, the shadows dulling their awareness of the world beyond.

"I will not lose you again." Cullen's voice is a growl, turning the words into a solemn vow. When he looks up his eyes are clearer than glass. "I swear it."

"Cullen …" It is now the inquisitor’s turn to fumble with his words, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. "You know you can’t make that promise." He’d intended to sound more firm but it comes out as a fractured whisper. His fingers are light when they trace Cullen's cheek. "You know who I am. Who _we_ are. What we have to do."

Cullen pulls back as if he’s been slapped in the face. “I … yes. Of course.” They both stand there staring at each other, lost in the darkness until the inquisitor surges forward for a kiss. Cullen seems to warily unwind again with that, pulling Trevelyan in until they’re hip to hip.

"I don’t know what will happen tomorrow, or the day after that, but I do know that what we have _can_ endure. That’s the only promise I want from you." Trevelyan’s saying this into his shoulder, comforted by the scent of metal and warm skin. "And you’ve already given that to me."

"I will give you more." They rock side to side on their feet, a gentle sway that calms Cullen further. "I will give you anything within my power."

"Anything?" There is a note of playful hope on the inquisitor’s tongue when he pulls his head back. "If that is the case … I do want just one more thing. Stay the night here with me."

Cullen’s smile is radiant in what little light there is. “I would be honored.”


End file.
